


to be invited in

by limerental



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Happy Halloween, Misunderstandings, Post-Canon, Regis POV, antics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:47:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: The unimaginative and ignorant who happen upon the place come away with the impression that the bizarre furnishing and eclectic collections are solely inspired by the whims of the backwards sorceress who has captured Geralt’s heart. Yennefer has always been strange and rebellious and disdainful of common decency, tending toward the macabre and grimey and salacious. Her home artfully reflects that, teeming with objects of frightful and ensorcelled natures, brimming with clutter seeming better suited to an alchemist’s shop than a humble family home.Among the jars of slugs and glowing potion bottles and gleaming crystals though, there are gathered numerous bits and bobs and pieces of the ever-widening collection of a lifelong, wandering forager suddenly turned homebody for the first time in his life. From dried bouquets of flowers to bright red mushrooms preserved behind glass to feathers and bones and sharpened teeth and of course, weaving among it all, the living menagerie.--Or Yennefer and Geralt retire together Addams Family style.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 16
Kudos: 75





	to be invited in

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is post-game canon adjacent (with no real spoilers) but leans toward book characterization except with show!Jaskier?
> 
> whatever, it's Yenralt addams family inspired wholesome nonsense

“Oh Regis,” croons the poet who meets him in the entryway, ushering him out of his coat with little tuts and sighs, “oh, you’ve arrived just in time! Just in time. Something’s gone wrong. Just dreadful. Good thing you’ve gotten here.”

He certainly looks distressed, pale-complexioned and rumpled, but being a queer fellow and given his own detachment from greater society, Regis has never been able to read his moods or motivations. His tendency towards high-flung fits and flourishes veers into the realm of put-upon melodrama, and it seems impossible that one human man could possibly maintain such a ludicrous personage over the decades without a measure of fakery and hoodwinking. The vampire can't quite imagine why Geralt continues to stomach it, let alone Yennefer.

That upon Geralt’s retirement, the bard took up in a spare room without so much as asking does not engender Regis to sympathy toward him over any horrors witnessed in such a place.

For this house is a place chock full of horrors, oddities, and devilish occurrences, and he has expected the bard to be well-used to it by now. The structure stands at the end of a long, country drive, surrounded by overgrown vineyards and gardens that bear plentiful fruit despite appearing grossly neglected, and the house itself echoes said neglect, crooked and misshapen as though the coastal winds that batter the land here have bent its walls and eaves and rooms into an alarming shape a breath from collapsing. The great variety of windows stare out from the house as hollow eyes full of gloom, the chimneys puff smoke in an array of colors, occasionally sparking and fizzing or sending out writhing shapes, and the sounds that rise from the house and grounds are strange and uncanny, enough to deter all but the bravest or stupidest of visitors.

Regis can’t say for certain which one he is. The poet, at least, has proven himself stupidly brave. Or bravely stupid.

“Lead the way,” says Regis.

The bard makes a poor butler. Jaskier carefully places his overcoat onto a hanger and tosses it into the depths of the closet under the crooked stairs, slamming and latching it quickly. The door trembles, and the oozing tendrils of some creature begin to feel their way under the doorjamb. _A pity_ , thinks Regis. _I liked the fit of that coat_.

The interior of the house reveals the true eccentricities of the couple who occupy it.

The unimaginative and ignorant who happen upon the place may come away with the impression that the bizarre furnishing and eclectic collections are solely inspired by the whims of the backwards sorceress who has captured Geralt’s heart. Yennefer has always been strange and rebellious and disdainful of common decency, tending toward the macabre and grimey and salacious. Her home artfully reflects that, teeming with objects of frightful and ensorcelled natures, brimming with clutter seeming better suited to a seedy alchemist’s shop than a humble family home.

Among the jars of slugs and glowing potion bottles and gleaming crystals though, there are gathered numerous bits and bobs and pieces of the ever-widening collection of a lifelong, wandering forager suddenly turned homebody for the first time in his life. From dried bouquets of flowers to bright red mushrooms preserved behind glass to feathers and bones and sharpened teeth and of course, weaving among it all, the living menagerie.

Rats and cats and grinkles and sauerblats and toadhankies and postuloons and vertigrabes. Little pets that chitter and hiss from the corners, and others that squeak and groan from a distance. Scratch marks across the peeling, floral wallpaper. Heavy cobwebs decorating the corners and crevices, here and there clustered with bejeweled spiders. A single, massive eyeball visible through a propped open trapdoor that opens to the basement.

Likewise, the eyes of the assortment of portraits hung on the walls follow Regis and the poet down the halls. Some of the portraits have very many eyes indeed.

“For such a thing to happen on Samhain Eve,” rambles the poet, leading him on. “Oh, it’s most dreadful, Uncle Regis, it’s horribly dreadful. And with Ciri arriving this evening! Oh dear. Oh bother. You’re just the right person to see to it though.”

Regis does not bother asking what has happened or correcting Jaskier’s verbiage in regard to him. He is uncle to young Ciri alone and then, more accurately, godfather. A lesser man than he may have wasted a great many words on such corrections, but the poet seems content on wasting plenty of words in his stead.

“--was peachy just this morning, just a little bit ago, I tell you. The lovely couple made breakfast together even, and I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, Uncle Regis, but they are ever so inspirational. Their undying romance, that is. He told her-- hmmm, what did he say exactly? I’ve lost my notes -- but he told her _Yennefer, your morning breath smells divine_ , or something. I’ve misplaced my notes! Trust me, it was incredibly charming in a Geralt-y sort of way. Yennefer seemed charmed at least. She did seem rather--”

In the distance, something like the tremble of an explosion rumbles through the house, floorboards shaking. One of the grinkles that has been skittering along the ceiling after them squeals, folds its shimmering wings, and dives into a hole in the molding.

"Oh dear," repeats Jaskier, stretching his long limbs to a faster pace and twisting his hands in front of him. "Oh dear, it will be a pity if they blow out any walls again. Oh bother."

"Geralt and Yennefer are… suffering a disagreement?" Regis guesses. He has always been proud of his ability to intuit happenings in a wide variety of circumstances. Though it does not take the supernatural inkling of a centuries old creature to know that the infamous pair are prone to legendary spats at alarming frequency.

"Well, yes, isn't it obvious! They've been having it out since this morning. Ever since-- And oh dear, the Samhain Eve festivities will be unbearable with them at odds. Especially with Ciri coming home"

“Ah, well, there’s your solution,” says Regis sagely, having already determined how to put an end to the disagreement. “The lord and lady of the house will simply have to get along. For Ciri’s sake. Who will take her trick or treating through the village tonight otherwise?”

Jaskier snorts, no doubt over Regis’ use of his friends’ overblown titles or because the bard has never spared much time or thought for children’s activities. A funny quirk, given his own childish nature.

The din at the end of the back of the house intensifies as they stride together through the winding hallways, and it soon becomes clear that the true source of the ruckus is occurring in the back garden. Voices rise over the rumble of the earth and the roars and bellows of what sounds like a monstrously pissed off creature.

“--only waited for me to--”

“--time for, Yennef--”

“--fuck _off_ , Witcher, you absolute--”

“--up and help--”

“--fucking up my fucking _marigolds_ , godsdamn it all.”

In the narrow kitchen at the back of the house, the poet hesitates, pulling aside the dainty coverings over the window in the door to the garden and wincing over whatever sights unfold there. Without ceremony, Regis tugs at the man’s collar and takes his place, peering through the warped panes.

The garden is a mess of mud and downed limbs and rutted grooves in the earth, looking as though several recent scorching fires have occurred, though that in itself is not out of the ordinary. Neither, truth be told, is the presence of the bizarre and pissed-off creature crouched in a bed of sunny marigolds, its furred front limbs with wicked talons clawing the earth and pink lips curled back over its snarling teeth. Geralt and Yennefer are on opposite sides of the garden, Yennefer behind the beast, a fell wind whipping her hair as power ripples down into her fists, and Geralt rising from a crouch before it, hands out in a placating gesture that seems ill-suited to the furious beast at hand.

As Regis watches through the window, the creature snorts and smoke billows from its nostrils. It huffs two deep breaths, the ribcage of its feline body swelling, naked throat glowing red as coals, and it unleashes an unholy belch of fire that strikes the earth at Geralt’s feet with a shuddering explosion of embers and soot. Geralt leaps back nimbly but lands in a scarred rut and loses his balance a moment, falling to one knee.

  
The creature advances in a wild leap but is reined in by a shimmering lasso that tightens around its throat. A neat trick, except it promptly reels on Yennefer, who holds the spectral rope.

“Oh dear,” says Jaskier, having snuck close to peer beside him, succeeding in fogging the window and jittering his teeth loudly in nervousness. “Oh dear, that’s not ideal.”

“Hush,” says Regis. Yennefer is yelling something nearly unintelligible besides a long slew of increasingly vulgar curse words, most directed at the Witcher. The vampire fights the urge to clamp his hands around the poet’s ears.

“Fucking _fuck_ , Witcher, you’ve gone soft,” Yennefer is saying, holding an invisible shield against the creature’s latest attack. “None of this fucking would have _fucking_ happened had you picked up your sword and fucking killed this thing in the first place instead of bringing it _fucking_ home.”

 _Quite vulgar,_ thinks Regis. _Oh my._

“No, Yen,” Geralt growls. “I’m not fucking--” He dodges the swipe of a claw as the beast directs its attention his way “--not fucking killing her.”

“Then do _something_ , Geralt! She’s destroying the garden.”

“Are your marigolds really so precious to you?”

“ _Witcher_ , I swear--”

Geralt, looking bedraggled and muddied from their prolonged bout of floundering about in the garden, sighs very deeply and bursts into determined action, launching himself toward the creature and slinging his wiry body onto its furred back. He clings there, digging his knees tight around its girth and tightening his fingers in its coat as the creature roars and begins to buck and flounce in circles, its powerful jaw snapping at the air but unable to reach the man on its back.

“Oh,” says Jaskier, who looks close to fainting. “Oh, I can’t look.”

“That seems rather reckless of him,” says Regis. The grinkle that has snuck close to peer through the window pane along with them chitters in agreement.

The poet snorts again. “Reckless? No, no, this is just an ordinary afternoon for Geralt. Leaping onto a rampaging beast is just what one does after tea if you’re him, I suppose. Oh dear, tell me when he’s quelled it.” He ducks below the windowsill and squints his eyes shut.

Returning his attention to the events in the back garden, Regis is surprised to find that the creature has stopped its wild bucking and stands breathing in deep gusts, the Witcher leaning back to scratch between its shoulderblades. As he watches, the beast reaches around and nuzzles the Witcher’s boot, little puffs of smoke still rising from its nostrils but its vocalizations shifted to little grunts and a deep, rumbling purr. As Geralt slips from its back and pats its side, it lumbers off into the garden and disappears, wholly soothed.

“Ah, he’s quelled it,” says Regis.

“Her,” says Jaskier, straightening up again and breathing a pronounced sigh of relief. “That’s Bessie. She’s a titch ornery sometimes.”

“You could have said.”

“Hmmm? Didn’t I? Well, no matter, Bessie’s not the concern here. The issue is--”

“ _Geralt of Rivia_ ,” howls a voice warped by a chaotic power.

Yennefer advances on her Witcher in the garden, her black skirts trailing the muddied earth, torn in places by the beast’s claws, her violet eyes seeming to glow more deeply as the static pressure of her magic lifts her wild hair to a dense frizz about her head. She is wholly terrifying, a being of otherworldly power and beauty, but Geralt stands square to meet her, his jaw tight and narrow shoulders held high, the only sign of his inevitable surrender being the awed fondness that creeps into his eyes.

“You _foolish_ fucking bastard.”

Regis chooses that moment to make his entrance, swinging the door open wide. Jaskier, who had been leaning heavily against it, promptly falls face-first down the short flight of stone stairs into the garden with a muffled _oof_ , and the assemblage of accumulated grinkles squeals angrily and flutters away into the depths of the house.

“Hey Regis,” says Geralt with a little waggle of his fingers. He does not take his eyes from the advancing sorceress. “I’d hug you but I’m kinda busy here.”

“Understandable,” says the vampire. “Could I be of any assistance?”

But it’s too late. Yennefer has already descended on Geralt and begun her offensive, using the terrible forces of chaos to batter the Witcher with the broken stems and blooms of her decimated marigolds.

“You utter _idiot_ ,” she shrieks, her voice reaching alarming pitches both low and high. “You couldn’t have waited a few moments for me to fetch the appropriate quelling potion while she was distracted, oh no, you had to dive right in and catch her attention. You alone. Oh mighty Witcher. Man of great and noble, utterly senseless sacrifice. You complete and utter buffoon of a man.”

“Now, now,” says Regis. “There’s no need for such offensive language.”

Jaskier, groaning, has yet to right himself from his clumsy face-down sprawl on the lawn.

Ignoring both of them, Yennefer goes on.

“Do you truly think so little of yourself? Still?” Her rage takes on new heights as she draws closer and closer, her beautiful face twisted into a pinched and taut expression. “Do you not care for your own life at all?”

Geralt does not flinch, his own expression equally fraught.

“Didn’t mean to--”

“Do you truly not know how your untimely death or mangling would affect me?” asks Yennefer as she stops before him, her voice softened but still teetering on the razor edge of hostile.

“Yen, I--”

“My friends,” says Regis, realizing that his window for stepping in to put a stop to this is narrowing. He clears his throat loudly. “Please, this squabbling is unnecessary. Isn’t young Ciri due to arrive soon? Won’t she be distressed by all this?”

“Don’t know about that,” mutters Jaskier, still spitting out blades of grass.

“It’s Samhain Eve, after all. It’s my understanding that the most recent local custom involves dressing the little children in the manner of ghouls and spirits and parading them here and there about the village to be given sweets and morsels. The ‘trick’ being only an old adage, I suppose, a suspicious holdover from nights when ghastly spirits were said to come tapping at windowpanes on Samhain Eve. Hmmm, hmmm, plenty of the most popular stories involve a humble peasant tricking a devilish fiend intent on sucking out his soul, but what if said fiend only desired some shelter from the cold? If my kind, in truth, required invitations to come in from the cold, I fear we all would have frozen to death long ago. Hmmm, it’s a bit of a--”

“Get to the point, Regis,” says Geralt.

The whole lot in the garden are watching him, as well as several shadowy figures in varying windows and in the leaning branches of the trees. Yennefer’s swirling chaos has stilled to a slight flutter as she stands before the Witcher, and Geralt has crossed his arms over his chest.

“The point,” says Regis, his hands clasped in stately composure behind his back, “is that you can’t very well take young Ciri out trick or treating when you are in such a state of disagreement, now can you?”

The couple in the garden have only a moment to blink at him in seeming contemplation of this wisdom before the crackling fissure of a portal suddenly opens nearby and, speak of the Devil, deposits Cirilla herself directly into Yennefer’s ravaged bed of marigolds.

The young woman yelps as her heels meet a slick patch of soil, and she promptly tumbles among the flowers with none of her usual grace. Her seeming inability to right herself is concerning and uncharacteristic until Regis recognizes the bottle of sloshing wine she holds aloft in one hand.

“Oh dear,” breathes Jaskier from the ground and lets out a loud bark of laughter.

Ciri gives up on rising to her feet, pulling at a sleeve to stare at the bloom of red wine on her-- oh, she’s not wearing much of anything at all. Her lean legs and stomach and shoulders are bare. Her tall, leather boots rise to mid-thigh, and she wears a poor excuse for a tunic that seems to have given up all the fabric meant to cover her torso to its billowing sleeves. A rakish, tricorn hat sits askew on her head.

“Cock,” she blurts, and Regis’ ears burn, struggling with the desire to politely cover his eyes. He realizes belatedly that she appears to be rip-roaringly drunk. “Hi, Uncle Regis, how’s it goin’? I think I mistimed my entrance, huh? Party’s not quite--”

She’s interrupted by a sudden and violent marigold-induced sneeze.

“No, ugly little thing, you’re a smidge early,” says Yennefer. “It’s barely noon. And you seem to have lost some of your clothing on the way.”

Ciri sticks out her tongue at her mother and manages with some wobbling to right herself.

“Ah,” she says, looking down. “Somebody really fucked up your marigolds.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes and rounds on the Witcher with a huff.

Regis tenses in anticipation of further feud-quelling on his part, preparing to move onto a new strategy, dreading the possibility that he may have to move to physical restraint to protect his friend from Yennefer’s ceaseless fury while trusting Ciri to calm her.

Rather than launch into further assaults, however, the sorceress simply tugs the Witcher into an embrace, tucking her head into the hollow of his throat and letting out a withheld breath. Geralt’s arms tighten around her waist and his cheek drops to her hair, eyes closing.

“You’re an idiot,” she sighs against his collarbone.

“Yeah,” says Geralt, his lips moving against the crown of her head.

“Don’t do that again. No more hostile strays.”

“No promises.”

“I know.”

A long, quiet moment stretches where the couple simply hold each other. Despite their startling differences, they appear uniquely suited to one another. No sight more natural than the sorceress tucked into the Witcher's arms.

“There now,” says Regis, clapping his hands together. “That’s all settled. Now, how about I brew us some tea?”

 _Another splendid job done on my part,_ thinks the vampire as the five of them settle around the wobbly kitchen table while the kettle steams merrily over the blue flame of a magical fire. He shoos away a pair of vertigrabes squabbling over the plate of biscuits he is busy arranging. After a moment of consideration, he snaps a biscuit and hands one half each to the spindly creatures. _A horrid disaster, neatly avoided. All thanks to you, Regis._

“Hey Ciri,” says Geralt, tone warm with amusement, and his daughter looks up from a prolonged pull from her bottle of wine, wiping her mouth. “Regis says me and Yen should take you trick or treating in the village later.”

“Piss off,” says Ciri and gestures with her middle finger. Regis hides a choked protest of indignation over such crassness in his brimming teacup.

“You won’t be going wearing that,” says Regis stiffly. “You’ll catch a cold.”

“Right,” slurs Ciri, grinning at her mother across the table who returns the look with a crooked smile and a warm glint in her eyes. “I’ll throw a blanket over top and call myself a wraith.”

“Sounds reasonable,” says Regis, very seriously. “Though you’ll need to cut out eyeholes.”

The odd little family, along with their adopted poet and a host of flitting and drooling and squeaking creatures crowded about, dissolves into laughter. Ciri goes so far as to slap her open palm against the table several times, slumping against Jaskier who seems lost to barely-contained hysterics, wiping tears from his cheeks.

Regis hums, not fully convinced that what he said was all that funny, but feeling a swell of fondness for this strange family anyway. He wonders who else will be joining them for the Samhain Eve celebrations and feasting, imagining a rousing gaggle of bizarre characters gathered around bonfires later this evening.

Their queer menagerie extends beyond the walls of the house, encompassing an ever-widening assortment of fellows of diverse and sometimes unquantifiable natures. All welcome here. The door swinging wide for even the most pitiable of beasts, mulled cider pressed into their hands and hearty welcomes ringing out across the dark as they are dragged into the warm glow of the fires. Tonight, the ghosts of those they have lost to time may deign to visit as well. He hopes so. In this house, the invitation is always open.

Regis is glad to see that the couple’s early spat seems long forgotten. Their hands rest together on the tabletop, fingers intertwined. Geralt stares at Yennefer with open, sickly sweet affection as she jokes with Ciri, and she sneaks glances at him from time to time, the corners of her mouth tipping up.

Regis beams with pride and warmth. How lucky they are to have invited him. It seems he intervened just in time.

How lucky they are, indeed.


End file.
